


mike townsend (is acquainted with the shadows.)

by Author_Authenticated



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: -clears throat-, Dream Sex, Hands, Other, Overstimulation, Semi-Public Sex, Voyeurism, damn. im going to hlell, good afternoon girl im in the shadows, i cant do this anymore im sorry mike gets fucked by the shadows thats it thats the tweet bottom text, just... bear with me here. on the tags, s-sorta? i mean. the audience technically is also the shadows., shadow sex, stage sex, the shadows as a sentient entity, who are very very clingy and adore mike just a little too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28923696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author_Authenticated/pseuds/Author_Authenticated
Summary: // a different kind of heavy feeling.mike townsend has the shadows to face, and the shadows love mike townsend in a way nothing that has touched the light ever could.(a neon fakes au where mike townsend makes the most of his time in the shadows, a dream-like realm where he can live out his wildest fantasies and forget that no one is coming to save him, because there's nothing he needs to be saved from.)
Relationships: Mike Townsend/The Shadows
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	mike townsend (is acquainted with the shadows.)

**Author's Note:**

> so neon fakes huh

the shadows love mike townsend in a way the garages and his fans never could.

it's a love unique to the furthest recesses of the mind. a love that sticks to every inch of your skin and invades, a love that intrudes. a love that is more than love, an infatuation, an obsession, a _necessity_ that wraps itself around his form and holds him close. it won't let go, not even if mike asked it to. 

_(not that he ever would. he doesn't want to be let go of ever again.)_

there's a comfort in the weight the shadows keep. he's always known a heavy feeling, but here, he is weightless. the shadows are a gravity, shifting and spiraling and pushing and pulling. it keeps mike close to its chest like a full hand, like a royal flush— a heavy hand with a strong grip, deft fingers clutched around his wrists and waist and neck and _thighs and—_

the music gets louder.

the bass pounds in his chest where his heart used to be.

the crowd roars. 

he never remembers the faces that stare up at him from the barrier painted in awe, but it doesn't bother him as much as it should. as long as they keep cheering, as long as they keep singing, it doesn't matter to him. nothing matters as much as it once did, but it's not a bad thing. it just means he doesn't have anything to worry about. not like before. now, the crowd screams for him. he hears his name over the screeching gain and feedback of the speakers, he hears it just the way he's always wanted— townsend, _townsend,_ ** _townsend—_**

it's everything he's always wanted.

everything, and so much more.

it's the shadows. it's everything, every weight, every name, every hand that's ever held him down or held him close. they hold him up, now— the hands press against his back and legs as he moves above the crowd, and again, he is weightless. if his hands ever slip or if he misses a note on the decorated fretboard of his guitar, the stereo will never betray him.

the hands continue to push and pull. he doesn't notice as he slips from above to below, too lost in the music and the sea of bodies that press against his. he exists in a space without temperature, but his memories serve his senses to fill in the blanks. there’s heat where he collides. 

the shadows swallow him whole. 

mike whimpers as they take him. smooth and scorching hands circle around his neck, long fingers curl into his hair and tug, dull nails ghost scratches against his scalp. rough and frigid hands sneak beneath his shirt and press against his chest, pulling the fabric up to expose flushing skin. they grab and clutch at his thighs, pushing his legs apart. he puts up no resistance. 

the music continues, despite his guitar being pulled away from him and handed off somewhere. the band plays. the music rumbles and resounds through his chest— and the groan he chokes out is amplified by the mic taped to him. he squeaks and moves to cover his mouth with his hand, but the motion is cut short by another pair of hands grabbing his wrists and pulling them away. another pair of hands fumble with the zipper of his jeans. he can't disguise the next sound he makes, nor how it echoes through the concert hall.

despite the layers of clothes being pulled and peeled away from him, the relief from building heat is nowhere to be found. an absent simple pleasure is replaced with a physical one, palming at the tent in his boxers and rutting into the shadow's loving touch. a crueler or more playful entity would have pulled away at his desperation, but it is far too fond of him to deny him anything he asks for— with the exception of escape, of course. it would give him everything he could ask for: fame, glory, a crowd to cheer his name, a guitar to solo with, pleasure, a thousand hands with one for every kind of touch. one for holding, one for petting, one for pulling, one for fucking—

one for slipping between his lips, two fingers pressing down on his tongue. a hand that he greedily accepts, mouth open and compliant, sucking at them eagerly as they push towards the back of his throat. he doesn't stop even as he moans around them, even as slick spit runs down the corners of his mouth and drips at his jaw. the shadows will always clean away his messes, even himself. and what a mess he must be, head pulled back by his curls, tensing hands around his neck, back arched as he leans against something he can't see, into something he only cares to feel. haphazardly dressed, shirt vanished but sleeveless vest still hanging around his elbows, pants and boxers caught at his knees.

the neon overhead lights of the venue provide brief glimpses of the flush of mike's skin, a gorgeous pale red that stretches from his ears to his cheeks to his shoulders to his chest to the head of his cock— flushed and dripping already, hard and twitching. he pants every time those darling, damned hands stroke his length and pause at the tip. he embarrasses himself with the sound of it, soft breaths and moans coming back to his ears like a choir over the music.

he swears breathily, letting the curse fade into a brief nervous chuckle. not that he has anything to worry about— just an ingrained little habit that he carried over, a defense learned from taking disappointment in stride. he doesn't disappoint, here. the shadows assure him of the fact, whisper in his ear that **_you're doing such a good job, you look so gorgeous like this, what pretty sounds you make, you take it so well, mike, we love you so much, we're never ever going to let you go—_ **

a whine cascades in volume as the fingers in his mouth pull away and he attempts to follow them dutifully, chasing the tips of the fingers until the hand in his hair pulls him back again. his little oral fixation is sated again quickly after, replaced with a strong grip against his chin and jaw, a thumb pressing against his wet lips. it's as he takes the thumb into his mouth that the fingers he had chased before come back to him, pressing against his hole as two other hands spread him open. 

he moans in earnest as it slowly presses into him, a single slick finger that isn't much of anything at all but still enough to make him writhe against the hands that bind him. he's still not sure whether to rut forward into the strokes or backward onto the fingers, but it's not a decision he has to make— the shadows will always provide. he's provided a second finger and is given no time to adjust to the stretch as it fucks into him and they scissor apart. mike cries out, but there is no pain. the shadows would never hurt him. _(not... not unless he wanted them to, he means. but. that's only sometimes.)_

it's only somewhere between the third and the fourth does he realize that whatever's fucking him no longer was taking the form of fingers, now something longer and thicker that feels so, so much better. it's somewhere between then and now that he's pushed forward, stumbling on awkward and weak knees, only aided by the shadows in not falling, finally being pushed back from the crowd to the stage where he belongs.

the spotlight burns as bright as it always does, no exemptions made even as the star of the show is brought to his knees and bent over. mike doesn't even try to recover or prop himself up by his elbows. he doesn't want to know how he must look to his crowd, mostly naked, mostly flushed, and mostly fucked. he just extends his arms above his head to grip the base of the microphone stand, knuckles whitening around the pole. 

now if only the shadows weren't so proud of their star.

a strong grip returns to his hair, fingers sinking into his curls and pulling his head back like before. he nearly chokes on his gasp, chipped painted nails sinking into his palms as they tighten around the stand, holding on for dear life. he can hear its voice in the bass that cuts through all the noise, in the high whisper of feedback from the amps, he can feel it in his chest, he can hear it in his ears— **_they're here to see you, mike, and they love every second of it. they love you. isn't it rude to not look at your audience? they came for a show. won't you give it to them?_ **

the shadows snap against his hips, fucking into him so hard and so deep, the microphone stand wobbles in his grip.

_who is he to deprive them after they've given him so much?_

_if they want a show, they'll get it._

he spreads his knees a little bit more, leans into the hand pulling at his hair. he stops trying to choke back moans, instead letting his gorgeous, melodic sounds escape him freely as they come, as the shadows fuck into his prostate without fail every thrust. he's their star of the show— he ought to show a little humility. 

and humility is all he has. humility and warmth, as things start to grow fuzzier and fuzzier the closer he gets to coming. the spotlight, the flush, and the gaze of the crowd make for a scorching combination, all of which go directly to his head. he thinks about the ache in his knees, how they sting against the rough stage floor. he thinks about the ache of his length, how he'd do anything for just a little more to be pushed over the edge. 

_(he doesn't think about how the shadows always give him exactly what he wants, and yet the shadows continue to fuck him hard and controlled. he doesn't think about how that may reflect on him, and how even in a world where he could have anything he could possibly ever want, he still wants it dangled in front of him— just out of reach.)_

so he lies there— on his knees, clutching his microphone stand, fucked to the beat of a song he isn't even playing anymore. he whimpers for more and gets none of it. the hands in his hair release their pull and he slumps against the stand, bracing himself and tensing as the loss of those hands make way for sharp nails that scratch down his back, leaving lovely and furiously red lines in their wake. it feels better than he could ever hope to describe— a sting that cuts through all the fuzz and fog only to fade into the very same feeling.

it’s all starting to blur together. the pleasure and the pain come together in a charming duet that feels as good as it sounds, the heat of the embarrassment and spotlight paints over the slight chill of bare flesh. the lights that shine in his eyes are blinding and the darkness seems to crawl closer and closer. his moans mix with the music, lyrics made up of a stream of curses and thank yous other various sounds he just can’t help to keep to himself. fucking and thrusting become the same action, hips twitching forward as he uses the shadows for his own pleasure. he can hear it pull at his mind, and he pulls right back at it.

_please— fuck, i’m so close, i wanna come so bad. please let me. i wanna feel good— please let me feel good_

**_(anything you want is yours. we’ll give you everything.)_ **

_i want more_

**_(whatever you ask for, it’s yours.)_ **

_more_

_more_

_moremoremo_

_remoremor_ **_emoremore_ **

**_(it’s yours.)_ **

_i'm yours_

**_(all mine.)_ **

the shadows love mike townsend in a way nothing that has ever touched the light ever could.

he comes with a shout, voice breaking as it peaks the microphone and he can feel the vibration on every inch of his skin. his back arches into the stimulation and the shadows keep him steady with their ever-present hands gripping his hips and hair and thighs and cock— his own release their vice grip on the mic stand in favor of spreading and tensing, nails scratching desperately against the stage floor. his orgasm is always powerful, always a full-body experience, here— vivid and hazy all at once like a dream far beyond lucid.

and the shadows will take care of him.

it continues to, even as he begins to cry instead of moan. even as his breathing becomes ragged, as he attempts to pull at the hands holding him down, holding him close. his vision is starting to get blurry— blinking back tears that shine like glass, manipulating the streaks of the spotlight that only seems to get hotter and hotter. he’s openly pleading, now, that he’s had enough, but the darkness that curls around his form is without relent. 

the crowd is cheering his name, but he’s not coherent enough to even let it reach his ears. all that exists is heat and pain and pleasure and the awful little smile on his face as he presses his cheek against the stage floor, hands and arms falling limp before him. it’s a blissful numbing haze, as his mind crumbles into less than the nothing it was before. he forgets his name despite it being chanted like a prayer in unmeasured, static-y tones— _he’s the star of the show, he’s a credit to the team, he’s loved, he’s coming again, he thinks he might pass out—_

and he goes down with the lights, right into the shadows embrace.

he doesn’t ever want to be let go.


End file.
